Gifts of Genius Part 19

"Suddenly Sulpizia returned. My brother was in his library when a messenger came for him from her parents. He ran breathless and pale to his gondola. The man was conquered in that moment and the wild pa.s.sion of the boy flamed up again. When he reached the Balbo palace he paused a moment, despite himself, upon the stairs, and the calmness of the man returned to him. Nature is kind in that to her n.o.ble children. Their regrets, their despairs, their lightning flashes of hope, she does not reveal to those who cause them. Every man is weak, but the weakness of the strong man is hidden. He entered the saloon. There stood Sulpizia with her parents.

"Death and victory were in her eyes. They were fearfully hollow; and the strongly-carved features, from which the flesh had fallen during the long struggles of the soul, were pure and pale as marble. It seemed as if she must fall from weakness, but not a muscle moved.

"Nothing was said. Camillo stood before the woman who had always ruled his soul, to whom it was still loyal. The parents stood appalled behind their daughter. It was a wintry noon in Venice--cold and still.

"'Camillo,' said Sulpizia at length, in a tone not to be described, but seemingly dest.i.tute of emotion--as the ocean might seem when a gale calmed it--'he has left me.'

"Child, I have not fathomed the human heart; but after a long, long silence my brother answered only, I know not from what feeling of duty and of sacrifice:

"'Sulpizia, will you marry me?'

* * * * *

"Cardinal Balbo arranged the matter at Rome, and after a short time they were married. I was the only one present with the parents of Sulpizia, who were glad enough so to cover what they called their daughter's shame. My mother would not come, but left Venice that very day and died abroad. The circ.u.mstances of the marriage were not comprehended; but the old friends of the family came occasionally to make solemn, stately visits, which my brother scrupulously returned.

"You may believe that we enjoyed a kind of mournful peace after the dark days of the last few years. I loved Sulpizia, but her cheerfulness without smiling was the awful serenity of wintry sunlight. She faded day by day.

It was clear to us that the end was not far away.

"Two years after the marriage, Sulpizia was lying upon a couch in the room behind us, where you have seen the veiled portrait which hung in my brother's chamber. All the long windows and doors were open and we sat by her side, talking gently in whispers. I knew that death was at hand, but I rejoiced to think that much as he had suffered, there was one bitter drop that had been spared him.

"Sulpizia's voice was scarcely audible, and the deadly pallor deepened every moment upon her face. Camillo bent over her without speaking, and bowed his head. I stood apart. In a little while she seemed to be unconscious of our presence. Her eyes were open and her glance was toward the window, but her few words showed her mind to be wandering. Still a few moments, and her lips moved inaudibly, she lifted her hands to Camillo's face and drew it toward her own with infinite tenderness. His listening soul heard one word only--the glimmering phantom of sound--it was 'Luigi.'

"His head bowed more profoundly. Sulpizia's eyes were closed. I crossed her hands upon her breast. I touched my brother--he started a moment--looked at me, at his wife, and sunk slowly, senseless by the couch."

VI.

Think of it! The birds sing--the sun s.h.i.+nes--the leaves rustle--the flowers bud and bloom--children shout--young hearts are happy--the world wheels on--and such tragedies are, and always have been!

I sat with the old Marchesa upon her balcony, and listened to this terrible tale. She tells it no more, for she is gone now. The Marchesa tells it no more, but Venice tells it still; and as you glide in your black gondola along the ca.n.a.l, under the balconies, in the full moonlight of summer nights, listen and listen; and vaguely in your heart or in your fancy you will hear the tragic strain.

THE TORTURE CHAMBER.

BY WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER.

Down the broad, imperial Danube, As its wandering waters guide, Past the mountains and the meadows, Winding with the stream, we glide.

RATISBON we leave behind us, Where the spires and gables throng, And the huge cathedral rises, Like a fortress, vast and strong.

Close beside it, stands the Town-Hall, With its ma.s.sive tower, alone, Brooding o'er the dismal secret, Hidden in its heart of stone.

There, beneath the old foundations, Lay the prisons of the State, Like the last abodes of vengeance, In the fabled realms of Fate.

And the tides of life above them, Drifted ever, near and wide, As at Venice, round the prisons, Sweeps the sea's incessant tide.

Never, like the far-off das.h.i.+ng, Or the nearer rush of waves, Came the tread or murmur downward, To those dim, unechoing caves.

There the dungeon clasped its victim, And a stupor chained his breath.

Till the torture woke his senses, With a sharper touch than death.

Now, through all the vacant silence, Reign the darkness and the damp, Broken only when the traveller Comes to gaze, with guide and lamp.

All about him, black and shattered, Eaten with the rust of Time, Lie the fearful signs and tokens Of an age when Law was Crime.

And the guide, with grim precision, Tells the dismal tale once more, Tells to living men the tortures Living men have borne before.

Well that speechless things, unconscious, Furnish forth that place of dread, Guiltless of the crimes they witnessed, Guiltless of the blood they shed;

Else what direful lamentations, And what revelations dire, Ceaseless from their lips would echo, Tossed in memory's penal fire.

Even as we gaze, the fancy With a sudden life-gush warms, And, once more, the Torture Chamber, With its murderous tenants swarms.

Yonder, through the narrow archway, Comes the culprit in the gloom, Falters on the fatal threshold-- Totters to the b.l.o.o.d.y doom.

Here the executioner, lurking, Waits, with brutal thirst, his hour, Tool of bloodier men and bolder, Drunken with the dregs of power.

There the careful leech sits patient, Watching pulse, and hue, and breath, Weighing life's remaining scruples With the heavier chance of death.

Eking out the little remnant, Lest the victim die too soon, And the torture of the morning Spare the torture of the noon.

Here, behind the heavy grating, Sits the scribe, with pen and scroll, Waiting till the giant terror Bursts the secrets of the soul;

Till the fearful tale of treason From the shrinking lips is wrung, Or the final, false confession Quivers from the trembling tongue;

When the spirit, torn and tempted, Tried beyond its utmost scope, By an anguish past endurance, Madly cancels all its hope;

From the pointed cliffs of torture, With its shrieks upon the air, Suicidal, plunging blindly, In the frenzy of despair!

* * * * *

But the grey old tower is fading, Fades, in suns.h.i.+ne, from the eye, Like some evil bird whose pinion Dimly blots the distant sky.

So the ancient gloom and terror Of the ages fade away, In the sunlight of the present, Of our better, purer day!

THE HOME OF CHARLOTTE BRONTe.

A Pa.s.sAGE FROM A DIARY.

BY W. FRANCIS WILLIAMS.